


Are You In or Out?

by Startabi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Double Penetration, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hand Jobs, Injury, Minor Violence, Multi, Oral Sex, Smut, Spit As Lube, THIS IS FLITH, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, not sorry about it, this is set BEFORE the plot of the mandalorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26079133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Startabi/pseuds/Startabi
Summary: The job you’re on takes a turn for the worst--Paz comes to your rescue and you're brought to the Covert.There you meet Din Djarin, though during a good natured sparring session, you’re suddenly stuck between an age old rivalry that spirals out of hand. Hopefully an agreement can be met.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, Paz Vizla/Reader, Paz Vizla/You, Paz Vizsla/Reader/Din Djarin
Comments: 38
Kudos: 248





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> howdy hey bucket fuckers. look upon this filth and SUFFER 
> 
> Also: 
> 
> hey...how y’all doin....SO lemme explain you smthn. I said helmets must be OfF--giv me them LIPS BABEY so this is a slight AU in which mandos can see other mandos’ faces. ya get me? I also tHot that it would be nice and fun to set the timeline 5-6 years BEFORE the plot of the Mandalorian so we gots a younger din here. anyway, as always enjoy and I hope you like!!
> 
> @jangofctts on tumblr

_Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes—_

Some as little as burning your finger on the nozzle of a smoking blaster or tripping over your own shoelaces. _Simple_ things _._ _Mindless_ things. 

Nothing that could ever compare to the catastrophic decision of picking up _bounty hunting_ as a reliable source of income. 

The little ones were easy—tax evaders and deserters of the Empire—most who’d yield and gladly follow without complaint just at the _sight_ of your blaster pointed between their eyes. And the gag of it is—most of the time you never bothered to _load_ the damn thing. 

_Reckless_.

An invitation for disaster. 

But skirting that precarious edge, one little slip up away from plunging head first into inevitable trouble is better than Bracca. Stars— _anything_ is better than Bracca. There’s no glory in bounty hunting but there’s even _less_ in ship scrapping. Abysmal pay in exchange for risking your life on rain slicked metal with only the Ibdis Maw to break your fall. 

The guild you work for is considerate—scratch that. _Greef Karga_ is considerate. Sure the flirting is a _touch_ unbearable but it saves your ass in the long run. All easy money bounties set aside for you in exchange for a cheap drink, hollow laughs and sugar sweet smiles. 

It’s enough credits to get by—more than plenty to rent a room and charter a ship. 

But there’s only so many bounties to capture within the limits of the guild and _oh so_ many people the empty blaster trick works on. And so the credits begin to thin; it gets too expensive to buy off a pilot and the debate over buying food or being able to pay for your room becomes more frequent than the scraprats that skitter inside the walls. 

It’s suicide to snag a higher paying bounty because.... _well_ —these bounties shoot _back._

_Whatever_.

Might as well die trying. Who knows, maybe you could score big time if you manage to pull this off. 

_Maybe_. 

-=-=-=-

You’re not sure who’s more surprised—Karga when you _asked_ for the bounty or _yourself_ when he actually _gave_ it to you. 

“Are you sure, kid? This could—“

“End in a fiery shitshow? _Yeah_ —I figured that,” you sigh, swirling your drink with a little complimentary toothpick. “But I need the money.” 

“ _Hah!_ You’ve got guts, girl.” He flashes you a smile and smooths down his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Tell you what. The last assignment was just taken but I’m sure if you run you could catch him. Work somethin’ out.”

Jumping from your seat, you throw on your coat and toss a couple credits onto the table to cover the drink. “What’s he look like?” 

“Big fellow—Mandalorian. You’ll know when you see him.”

You shout your thanks over your shoulder and hightail outta there. The landing docks aren’t far, you can see them from here. It’s _finding_ the guy that could pose a problem.

_If he hasn’t already left,_ you bitterly think. 

However, it seems the universe is on your side today. Karga was right. He _is_ big. Stands out like a sore thumb against his ship that glitters dully in the overcast sky. Kinda like an oversized blueberry. A yellow _and_ blue blueberry…. _not important_ —

“ _Hey!_ Hey, you!” You’re _so_ close, just a couple yards away. You swear and hurry up your pace as he steps onto the loading ramp. “Big guy! Large...blue man?”

You trip over your own feet as he turns his head. _Fuck_ —

No _way_ are you gonna be able to bargain with _this_ guy. Built like a fucking AT-AT and probably just as stubborn. After all, no one would ever be dumb enough to come between a Mandalorian and their quarry. You grimace, and suck in a breath—

Before a word even _leaves_ your mouth he interrupts with a steady, unwavering;

“ _No_.”

Your brows furrow. “I didn’t even _say_ anything!”

“I know what you were going to ask,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I work _alone_.”

_Ok, then_. You didn’t want to resort to _begging,_ but you’re kinda running out of options here. You take a steadying breath and plant yourself at the bottom of the ramp. “C’mon man. _Look_ —I’ll let you take seventy percent of the cut and I can—“

“You’ll _let_ me?” He repeats, the staticky tone of his voice dropping into an edge more cutting than broken transparisteel. The metal platting on the ramp vibrates from the weight of his step to move closer; _Stars_ it takes every fucking _inch_ of willpower to hold your ground. “You’re _lucky_ if I _let_ you leave with your life. Get lost.” 

_Fuckfuckfuck_ —you should listen. You wanna fucking run for the hills and never look back in case he comes looking to purge your name from the kriffing galaxy. You clench your jaw and steel your nerves. _Too bad_ —you’ve dug your heels so far into this empire of dirt and false bravado that your only way out is continuing to poke the sleeping bear until he snaps your spine or caves.

You have to crane your neck to glare into that dark strip of his vizor, seeing as he’s invited _himself_ into _your_ personal space. _“No.”_

“No?” He mocks, now toe to toe with your scuffed up boots. 

Your teeth clench, a scalding flush burning through your cheeks and all the way down to your chest. He’s _toying_ with you—finding amusement in your stubbornness and apparent lack of braincells for challenging him. “You don’t scare me.” 

The man hums, a deep purr that rumbles through his entire ribcage as he raises his gloved hand. You curse yourself for flinching because _surely_ he’s about to crush your skull like a fucking _grape,_ but _no._ All he does is fix your rumbled collar then pat your cheek. 

“I don’t need the extra baggage.”

“I’m not _baggage_ ,” you sneer, slapping his hand away. “I can handle myself.” 

“With an empty blaster?” He points out, tipping his head to the side. “Your parlor tricks won’t do you any good on _this_ job.”

“I’m a good shot!” You sputter, placing your hands over you hips and mustering up your best glare. “W-when I _have_ ammo…” 

_“Right.”_

Meeting Paz Vizsla, could have gone _far_ better, to put it into the most simplest of words. Jagged and hard to settle into a routine around each other for the journey to Nar Shaddaa in a tiny, _old,_ and cramped freighter ship. Most cycles you have to wedge yourself beside a cargo crate to sleep. In addition to that, _how_ it’s able to break through the atmosphere let alone _fly_ is beyond you—an entire mystery on its own. 

At least you’re able to sit in the spare seat inside the cockpit—one of the only places available to stretch your legs. The only problem is that it’s _also_ where Paz Vizsla likes to lurk (well, not _lurk_ —it’s _his_ ship and it’s where he can comfortably _fit_ but—to each their own). 

There’s a net of tension still woven between you—each interaction like tiptoeing over eggshells. Though, like all things, it becomes simpler. There’s not exactly any ongoing _conversations—_ you don’t want to pry into a life you know nothing about—it’s not your business despite the cumulation of questions that linger in the back of your mind. You know when to take a hint—not every person is willing to indulge you about their livelihood, and surely not something as secretive and well guarded as the Mandalore. 

_Familiarity_ is what you want to call it. Comfortable with each other’s presence with small talk speckled in throughout the never-ending vastness of hyperspace. Compared to the infinite turmoil in your life, slippery footholds and uncertainty—Paz Vizsla is _steady._ In a way— predictable and _safe_ in the confines of this ship. 

You’d even go as far as to label him _kind,_ a _friend_ maybe—if you look past the grumpiness and rather poor taste in corny jokes. You know it’s stupid, no doubt stemming from the deep ache of loneliness that comes hand in hand with staking it out on your own in the galaxy; but you can’t help but wish that this could be a new normal. Not some once in a lifetime thing where you both part ways, fade into the recesses of memory and leave it at that. 

If things go well—and _rarely_ do they on a job—maybe you’d pluck up enough courage to ask him if you could stay. There’s no harm in it…right?

-=-=-=-

_Well_ —the cynical part of you was _right._

It _did_ end up in a fiery shit show. 

Turns out the stupid quarry you’d been tracking _excelled_ in long range weaponry. A former marksman for the Empire to be exact. Guess _that_ tidbit of information wasn’t pertinent. A need to know sorta thing, if you will. 

You _feel_ the molten bolt of plasma connect with your side before your ears pick up the sound of a weapon firing, like a crack of lighting in the empty alleyway. And before your body even connects with the duracrete, Paz is returning fire. A brilliant neon red against the hazy blur of shadowy buildings. 

Kinda weird how knocking the back of your head hurts worse than the literal blaster wound burned into your side. Shock maybe. Or the heat from the plasma cauterized each veins and artery it tore through and ate away at flesh and nerves. _Hm…_

You’re sprawled in a wet pool of _something—_ either your own blood or a puddle of stagnant gutter water and d _amn—_ you’re wearing your _favorite_ shirt.

It doesn’t matter at this point…

You’re choking on your own air from the big ass hole blasted into your diaphragm, so to say things are looking _grim_ is an understatement. 

Nar Shaddaa isn’t your first choice to kick the can on, but _hey_ —not everyone gets the luxury of dying on Naboo. And just as you’re ready to slip away into that sweet, sweet abyss, it seems your fellow armored friend has other plans. 

The beskar is _freezing_ against your cheek after he deadlifts you off the duracrete—you remember _that_ plain as day. That and the hushed rumble of Paz’s voice _insisting_ you save your dwindling supply of air instead of _apologizing_ to him—or ordering you to stay _alive_ for _kriff’s sake._ It’s _impossible_ to argue with Paz—like trying to bite through durasteel, and while those beckoning tendrils of eternal slumber _are_ mighty tempting, you cling to your life with all the strength you have left. After all, inconveniencing someone with a corpse is _such_ a party foul to the _highest_ degree. 

The rest is muddled—like dredging up silt and clay in a murky river that just leaves you with a pounding headache between your eyes. It’s a terrible mess of pain and bouts of temporary consciousness, mistaken with fever dreams and _yup_ —more pain. The only consistent is _Paz—_ hovering nearby or settled beside you—through thick and thin as you heal. 

There’s no solid reason your brain can conjure as to _why_ he brought you to the Covert—it’d have been easier to just dump you at the nearest hospital and be done with it. You’re not his responsibility and you’re too afraid to ask what it means. Too many possibilities—too many answers you aren’t in the mood to face or untwist. 

And so you leave it be, set aside for another time—which brings you to the present day… 

You’re splayed over your little makeshift cot, feet propped up on a spare pillow as you scour through a cheesy Coruscanti gossip magazine. It’s _years_ old—the only piece of entertainment you could find other than a _weapon_ in the Covert. And seeing as a massive hole had been blasted through your ribcage, picking up the clever art of throwing vibroblades or shooting targets to pass the time was out of the question. 

Even _if_ you’d rather fall into a Sarlaac pit than stare at the wall for _hours_ on end _yet again_ —it hasn’t been _all_ that bad. It’d taken weeks before you regained enough strength to sit up on your own, let alone walk—and _walking_ is putting it lightly. It was more of a stiff legged shuffle better suited on a two hundred year old woman seconds from disintegrating into dust at the mere _hint_ of a breeze. 

Not to mention—your right lung was all but _shredded_. Ripped apart from the plasma bolt and miraculously reconstructed by a more than questionable bacta tank, hopeful thoughts and well wishes. To this very day you _still_ sound like a broken air filter. 

_Eh_. 

Could be worse. 

At least you aren’t _dead._

Just another setback that adds on the growing pile of reasons why _never_ to leave the Covert. Free food, free board and mild entertainment to top it off. Paz had stayed at your bedside for the most part while you recovered—stuck with babysitting your sorry ass until you regained a bit of mobility. The times Paz hadn’t been at your side to stave off the boredom, it was up to you to find your own fun. 

_Snooping_ is what Paz had labeled it—but you saw it more as an _adventure_. You met Din Djarin exploring ( _lost_ is what you _actually_ were) in the dimly lit underbelly of Nevarro, after all. _Yes_ , you may have scared the ever loving _shit_ out of the poor guy and _yes_ , he may have singed off your brows with a five foot jet of fucking _fire—_ but hey. No one got _hurt._

_And_ you made a new friend. _Sorta_ …Din is difficult to read, subtler in his soft spoken words and quiet demeanor. A bit like a skittish loth-cat at the start, but nowadays it’s not uncommon to find him lounging in the same space as you or hovering over your shoulder, awfully curious in whatever it is you choose to do. Like Paz, Din isn’t overly fond of sharing much information about _himself_ but he never complains after you regale tales of your own _vastly_ fascinating past. He seems interested enough—tilts his head a tick to the right when you speak to indicate that _yes, he’s listening_ despite the unforgiving dark line of his visor. 

There are others in the Covert too—some so elusive you have a hard time believing they _exist._ Shadows of what they once were before the rise of the Empire. And so, you count yourself lucky that you’d been introduced to two others—Aeris Fenn, a young man nearly as tall as a _Wookie,_ and a woman named Ives Arrey; her armor a flashy green—damn near _florescent_ in the light. 

They’re nice enough company. Aeris is a chatterbox, his wit sharper than a blade but lacking in any forethought _before_ he speaks. Ives is the far opposite—rolls each sentence in her mouth before she voices it, but in no way is she _angelic_. _Maker_ —you’d bet your entire left asscheek she’s behind each bad decision and silly shenanigans Aeris sticks his nose into. He never learns—not after a harsh chiding or cuff around the helmet from Paz or the Armorer could dampen is childlike enthusiasm or steer him away from repeating the same mistake over and _over_. 

Though if you read one more _kriffing_ sentence of this _garbage_ magazine you’re about to invite chaos _himself_ to entertain you. Good thing too because just as you sit up to find the red armored Mandalorian—Paz rounds the corner and steps into your little broom closet that hardly passes for a room. 

“Paz!” You greet, tossing the magazine over your shoulder. “ _Please_ tell me we’ll be doing something interesting or else I might start ripping my hair out. Or maybe commit a heinous crime—haven't decided yet.” 

Paz grunts and shakes his head. “You’ll be doing _neither._ But today we’ll be sparing—hopefully that will curve your boredom.”

You scrunch up your face. “ _Sparring?_ Er, no thanks—I choose life.” 

“You breathe funny since your injury,” he says, jabbing a finger between your ribs. “And all you’ve been doing lately is laying around.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you sneer, tucking your arms over your chest. “Didn’t realize I was supposed to be running laps with half a lung.”

“It’s like stretching a muscle, you need to gain your strength back.” He retorts. “This will be _good_ for you.” 

You groan and flop back into bed. “I don’t _wanna_. I was pretty much dead like three cycles ago—cut me some slack, man.”

There’s a brief silence as if he’s mulling over your words, but he’s _stubborn_. You crane your head to look at him as he says your name with a deep sigh attached to it. 

“Truthfully, I’m surprised you’ve survived this long.” He says it quietly, fragile even, like he’s still expecting you to tip over and die on the spot. You very well _might_. 

You huff. “Wow. _Thanks_ , Paz.” 

You feel his heavy stare through the helmet. “What happened to you that night was a mistake. It wasn’t preventable but the least I can do is teach you basic selfdefense.” 

You gripe out your complaints but you know you’ve been beat—and well, a bit of your agreement is based on guilt. 

_Damn it_. 

-=-=-=-

It’s weird to see Paz without his heavy duty gear—like seeing him naked or a crab without a shell. The only piece he continues to wear is his helmet and padded gloves and under clothes, but it’s still _weird_. Strange enough that it shocks you tongue into remaining still instead of bitching about this. 

He leads you to a wing of the Covert you’ve yet to discover and ushers you through the doorway. The floor is padded, a bit smaller than you expected and already occupied by none other than Aeris Fenn. 

It’s a whole other kriffing shock to the head seeing him without the plates and layers of fabric and beskar too. The armor makes him bulkier—fuller and much more intimidating. Now, with only his black underclothes on, Aeris could be the _spitting_ image of a sentient tree. Willowy limbs that stick out like branches as he stretches on the padded mat. He lazily swings his head around as you greet him, his face still covered by the black beskar painted with streaks of red. 

“So you choose sparring over knife throwing?” Aeris snorts. “And to think I thought of you as a friend.” 

“You think I _chose_ to be here?” You say, grumpy and still upset at the choice of activity. Really, a brisk walk around the Covert would’ve been _fine_.

Aeris shrugs. “Ah, and I see you’ve roped in my favorite _vod_. _Tch_ , he uses his fists instead of his _words_ to teach. I wish you luck—you’ll need it.” 

You open your mouth to retort but Paz beats you to it. 

“Leave.” 

“I’ve just arrived, _actually_ ,” Aeris scoffs, folding his torso over his other leg to stretch. “Perhaps you could reschedule. _After all—_ our guest is quite _free_ most days.” 

_Welp_ —you’re perfectly fine with that. Problem solved. 

You spin on your heel and make a break for it but Paz snatches your wrist and pulls you back to his side. “ _Aeris_.” 

“ _Paz_ ,” Aeris mocks, tipping his helmet to the side. 

Paz exhales, a long, _tired_ sound and grovels out another plea in clipped Mando’a. Aeris languidly stands and brushes off imaginary dust from the front of his pants. “Sorry, what was that? I don’t understand your accent.” 

“ _Boy_ —“

“No, no, it’s alright.” Aeris sighs, waving his hand in a mopey display as if he were told that his birthday party were canceled for the fifth year in a row. “I’d have trouble speaking _too_ if my enormously thick head were cooped up in that little bucket of yours all day.” 

You wince. 

In the time you’ve known Paz Vizsla, he’s never been one to launch into rash decisions fueled by anger—he lets it simmer and build like an oncoming storm over the ocean. Devastating once it reaches land.

Aeris bobs his head and inspects his black leather glove, picking at a loose thread on the inseam over the thumb. He clicks his tongue. “ _Or'dinii_ —you’re going to kill her.” 

Your offended scoff is ignored as Paz steps forward; jutting his chin up to even out the few inches Aeris holds over the man. “You still haven’t learned to shut your mouth, boy.” 

The tension surges and crackles like a volt of electricity through the air—unresolved and ready to ignite with the sparking embers of Paz’s growing irritation. It’s not a fight Aeris Fenn will win. He’s volatile and hotheaded—but his expertise is in long range weaponry. Precise, deadly and swift—not whatever this little pissing match is heading towards. 

Aeris clicks his tongue as Paz digs a fist into the black fabric of his shirt. Paz yanks him forward, the metallic clink of their helmets colliding an unpleasant scrape that pierces your eardrums. Aeris snarls out sharpened words in Mando’a as his willowy fingers shoot up to curl beneath the lip of Paz’s helmet. 

In the blink of an eye, Paz lifts Aeris up by his collar and launches him across the room like he weighs nothing more than a couple of down pillows. His helmet meets the wall with a resounding _clank,_ chipping some of the red paint outlining the visor. _Ouch_. 

Like a kicked dog, Aeris clambers to his feet, still dazed and swaying and for a fearful second you think he’ll retaliate. But with whatever braincells he happens to possess today—he instead spits out a venomous curse that even yourself would hesitate to repeat. He leaves without another word, bristling with rage. 

Your flash Paz a questioning stare. “The hell was that about?” 

Paz waves it away with an irritated grunt. “His heart is in the right place but he is _young._ Aeris doesn’t understand his place in the Covert yet and I doubt he will for years to come.” 

You frown. “Poor guy…” 

Paz mutters something under his breath. “Enough distractions. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

“Y’know…I think that’s enough excitement for today. I think I’ll be going now—“ Your last ditch attempt at weaseling out of this is quickly thwarted the moment you turn your back. 

You wheeze as the heel of Paz’s palm shoves into your shoulder blade, the force of it sending you stumbling to the ground. “ _Paz_ —“

“Go on. _Hit_ me,” he orders. You squeak, narrowly avoiding the well aimed kick that skims the top of your scalp. 

You scramble to your feet, skirting out of range of the oncoming right hook. “So you attack _me_ instead?” 

“How do you expect to catch quarries who are bigger than you?” He presses. You hiss as the points of his knuckles dig into the meat of your shoulder. 

You dance out of reach and rub your arm, a dull throb flaring up in the muscle. “I dunno— _electrocute_ them?”

“Not if they take you by surprise.” 

You screech as his knuckles skim your cheek. Adrenaline pierces you veins and you wildly throw a flaky punch that wouldn’t even impress a _toddler_. He catches your fist with ease, his entire hand dwarfing your clenched fingers. “You can do better than that.” 

You snarl and struggle to rip your hand back. “I’m a _scrapper_. I don’t _fight_.”

“ _No_ ,” he retorts. You fall onto your ass as he abruptly lets go of your hand. “You’re a _bounty hunter_.” 

You roll your eyes. “ _Hardly—_ why can’t I just stay here?”

Although there’s nothing to _see_ with that swatch of black covering his eyes, you can certainly _feel_ the look he’s giving you. A deep sigh hisses through the vocoder. “You _can_ stay here—“

A triumphant smile splits across your face—

“—but not without contributing where it’s due.”

You puff up your cheeks and let out a dismayed stream of air. “ _Booo_ —lame.”

He sighs again and helps you off the floor. “Even if you leave the Guild, what I’m teaching you is _helpful_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “I’ll give you a call after I use your _invaluable_ skills to beat up some thug.”

Paz ignores your comment and turns on his heel. “Let’s go through it again. This time use your front two knuckles instead of your whole fist.”

As your eyes land over the stretch of tight fighting fabric over his back an idea pops into your head. It’s a petty move but getting a punch in is fruitless—like trying to beat up a brick wall. You don’t fancy a broken hand and your knuckles are already bruised and swollen to the point where it’s hard to bend them. 

And so, without any forethought and with a running head start, you launch yourself onto him, your arms coiling around his neck. It does the job—takes him by surprise and makes him tip to the right. 

_Aha! Yes!_

Your reign of victory is short lived, however—

He latches onto your forearms strung around his neck and _yanks_. And much in the same way he threw Aeris like a sack of potatoes—you’re _no_ different. For a short stretch of time that feels kriffing _endless_ ; you soar through the air, your directional whereabouts violently ripped out beneath you and equally nauseating in the same breath. 

_Why_ you ever agreed to this—you don’t _know_. 

Your shoulder blade connects with the mat first, leaving behind a dull sting as you roll and tumble with uncontrollable momentum. _Oh, yeah_ —you’ll feel _that_ in the morning. 

Groaning, you thank the Maker that your body _eventually_ settles into a miserable little pile of limbs and pain. But, it seems whatever higher power that lingers in the edges of the galaxy hasn’t decided to put you out of your misery _just_ yet. 

A bulky shadow blocks out the dim lighting overhead, and for a brief anxiety ridden moment you’re afraid it’s _Paz_. You roll onto your back with a pathetic groan, a beg for mercy on the tip of your tongue—but as your eyes flutter open they’re met with an entirely _different_ man. 

_Din Djarin_ looms over you, his head cocked to the side as you blink in dumbfounded bewilderment. _Ah, hell—_

You swallow, a furious heat bitting at your cheeks. “Uh…fine weather we’re having…”

“We’re inside,” he states with a brief glance up to the ceiling. 

You purse your lips. “Huh.”

With a pensive hum he offers his hand, you sigh and roll over, accepting his gloved hand. He hoists you up easily and adjusts your rumpled collar. “You ok?”

“ _Pfft_ , yeah,” you groan, rubbing your throbbing shoulder. “Never better.”

The low grumble of your name is a cross between disbelief and irritation. Din jerks his head, his attention zeroing in on Paz. “Are you _trying_ to kill her?” 

“She isn’t made of glass.” 

“ _She_ is still _recovering_ —“

Normally you’d intervene, but their bickering is tiring and it gives you the excuse to lie down. By the time one of them caves you’ve counted exactly one hundred and twelve weird ceiling stains. They should get that checked out. 

“Very well,” Paz snarls, cutting through your wandering thoughts. “ _You_ teach her.” 

Din scoffs, his shoulders drawn tight as he stomps over to your splayed out self. “Get up.”

“Geez, _fine,”_ you grumble, not in the mood to test his patience further. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Later he’ll no doubt apologize but right now? He has to prove a _point_. Din cuts right to it, moves in close to place your clenched fists in the right stance and nudges at your feet until they’re a bit wider than hip distance. 

“You have to get in close with a bigger opponent,” he says, stepping into your space until your fists are close enough to touch his chest. “We don’t have much range here—easier to break our guard too.” 

“Right. And how would you suggest I _do_ that?”

“You’re always beating me at cards.” Din says, tipping his head to the side. “You have a clever mind. _Use_ it.” 

“But I always cheat.” You point out, dropping your guard to swat at a stray hair. 

He catches your wrists and returns them to where they ought to be. “Quick enough to get away with it.” 

You make a noise of uncertainty but do as you're told. Din takes a couple steps back and with a rough order you begin. 

He’s _faster_ than Paz—bats at your guard in quick bursts and steps away when you attempt to hit back. It’s a dance almost—somehow elegant in its brutality of bruises and flashes of pain as you move around one another. Compared to Din, Paz is almost _clumsy_ but unpredictable. Din—despite the rapidness of his attacks and evasiveness, becomes predictable.

He steps to to left—you follow. He rocks onto his toes to jab his fist forward and that’s where you find a break. Punching Din’s helmet won’t do you any good but catching the juncture of his shoulder with your elbow is completely feasible. Too bad that you’re not the only one with a _clever mind_. 

Din uses the momentum of your attack to catapult you to the ground—his own body rolling with you in order to capture you in a headlock of sorts. This _sucks_. After this you’ll never be setting foot in this Maker forsaken room again. 

Din tightens his elbow that’s looped around your throat as you squirm and flail, trapped against his chest. He grunts as your elbow digs into his ribs but holds steady and snakes his free arm across your front, pinning your limbs to your body in an unbreakable vice. All mobility is cut off as his knee pushes between your thighs, locking your leg out into an uncomfortable and frankly quite _awkward_ angle. 

Inhaling a shaky breath, you arch as the crown of his helmet skims along the curve of your throat; the bite of beskar frigid and startling against your flushed skin. You can see his visor out of the corner of your eye; glittering and dark like the polished obsidian on Black Spire and endless like the greedy maw of a black hole. 

Your breath hitches as he shifts and curls his head closer to your ear. His voice rumbles low and deep through his chest and vibrates against the delicate cartilage. “ _Yield_.” 

However much your pride wrestles with the sensible part of your brain, it’s all for naught as you jerk your head in defeat. 

In retrospect you should’ve _said_ something—used your _voice_ or made some kinda sound because suddenly Din’s forearm digs _alarmingly_ hard into your windpipe. He read the stuttered jerk of your head as another pitiful act of defiance but _no._ Nope _._

Here you are— _asphyxiating_. 

Not exactly what you had in _mind,_ being strangled by a Mandalorian and all—but a chokehold where you could very well _die_ was not _it_. 

Fuzzy darkness begins to shade the corners of your vision, lightheadedness and a curious warmth that prickles down your spine settling low in your belly. A raspy gasp manages to slip through your blocked off airway, and _stars_ why does this feel _good?_

_“Din—”_

Paz’s sharp bark is distant above the ringing in your ears and it all _stops_.

You gulp in air that burns your throat like refined fire whiskey—hunched over the mat as a large palm rubs soothing circles over your upper back. You cough and roll over, sounding like a dying animal run over by a speeder then hit with a spiked club to polish it off. 

You’re quickly herded into Paz’s arms and pulled into his lap. Still wheezing and attempting to recover lost oxygen, whatever Din is trying to say translates into an indiscernible hum against the ringing in your ears. 

“I’m fine,” you mutter, though neither of them care to _listen_. Like bristling wolves, snapping at each other’s heels. 

“Apologize to her,” there’s not so much as a _centimeter_ of room to argue. “ _Now_.” 

It’s nice of Paz you suppose—defending your honor and what not, but you’re not a vengeful person. It was an honest mistake and you _want_ to explain that so Din quits looking like a kicked puppy, yet the sudden touch over your ankle stops you. All the times Din has initiated contact it’d been a friendly pat to your shoulder or ruffling you hair, and while touching your ankle isn’t exactly _scandalous_ it’s certainly an odd place to put your hand on. 

Your fingers clutch Paz’s shirt as you eye the man lingering at the bottom of your feet, his gloved thumb unconsciously rubbing patterns into the exposed skin between your boot and your pant leg. “ _Cyare_ —I’m sorry.” 

You blink and lick your lips. _Interesting_. “I-I don’t know what that word means.”

His hand inches higher, resting on the swell of your calf. “ _Sweetheart…darling…loved one_ —“ 

There’s a shift—a dark undercurrent that none of you should be dipping your toes into. There’s a million and one things to say or do to sever this at the root, but are you going to? _Nah_. 

Din’s thumb now rests over your knee, goosebumps following in his wake. “Should I keep going?” 

It too hot— _stuffy_ with both of their heavy stares locked on your flushed face. You squirm and glance up at Paz who only offers an impassive stare. _Great_. 

“I can make it up to you,” Din continues, his hand stationary—a warm weight even through the fabric of your pants. “If you let me.” 

Your mouth feels drier than the desert on Jakku. This…nothing _good_ could come out of what Din is hinting at. This is uncharted territory—launching yourself into the great unknown without any idea of what’ll fester and grow if you _agree_. 

It’s not like it _hasn’t_ crossed your mind—it’s just…it’s never been _both_ of them at the _same time._ These men are short-tempered, an open flame to jet fuel with deeply seated ire woven into the very fabric of their beings. You’ve barely scratched the surface on the inner workings of their mutual hostility, but you’re bright enough to question if _this_ will make it _worse._ Tinder and brittle twigs feeding and enabling the hungry flames of rivalry to spiral and consume with chaotic brilliance of a dying star—

But, _oh—_

Isn’t it _worth_ taking the risk? 

You suck in a grounding breath and slowly extend your leg that Din touches, gingerly skimming the toe of your shoe along the inseam of his inner thigh. “H-how _would_ you…make it up to me?”

Din preens at your answer and shuffles closer, lifting your legs so that they rest in his lap. Devotion drips off his words like a fine liquor as he toys with the laces on your boots. “ _Anything—_ say it and it’s yours.” 

Sparks of molten heat race down your spine and metastasize in your lower belly, spreading through each vein and artery like a some sort of invasive ivy. You spare a look up at Paz as he shifts. 

“Go ahead, girl,” Paz assures. “Answer him.” 

It’s an unspoken, buzzing sort of thing like the static air before a storm, crackling and surging with pent up energy. You all know the implications of what’s to come—but it’s your words, quiet and steady that irons that nail into your coffin.

“Take me like you _mean_ _it_.” 

The next few moments pass in a dizzying blur, a mess of anticipation as your shoes are yanked off, your pants following soon after and tossed into some unknown corner of the room. Paz helps you out of your shirt, a shiver wracking through your body from the chill, leaving you bare save for your underthings. Yet the warmth that seeps through his shirt and his hands that linger over your ribcage do a _lovely_ job at making up for the cold.

Din shuffles closer and brings his fingers up to cup the side of your face, lowering his head to rest the crown of his helmet on your forehead. “Wanna touch you.” 

Your breath hitches as Paz’s hands sweep up your torso, cupping and kneading your breasts. “Y-you already _are_ touching me, Din." 

Paz snorts as the rough leather of his gloves scrape over your skin and unhook your bindings. You hardly hear Din over your own whine as Paz rolls your hardened nipples between a forefinger and thumb. 

“I want to _feel_ you—without the gloves,” Din clarifies, fighting to keep your attention on _him._ “Will you let me?” 

_Maker_ that shouldn’t even be a _question_. You moan out your approval, delighted that _both_ of them decide to slip off the padded fabric. Din touches your bare thigh the same moment Paz returns his hands to your tits and it’s _exhilarating_. The rasp of their bare palms against your flesh is _addicting—_ something so foreign and _warm_ compared to their usual armor and thick layered clothing. 

You arch into Paz’s hand as it curls around the base of your throat, a tentative pressure but still heavy. “You’d let us do anything, wouldn’t you? _Needy_ little thing.”

“Yes,” you croak, already debauched and falling apart at the seams. “ _Anything_.”

You’re all too happy to fade away in the embrace of the larger man but the other participant is _far_ from letting that slide. Din grabs your hand, guiding it towards the front of his trousers, the drawstrings already loose and easy to pull aside. He groans and twitches as your fingertips flirt along his navel, then curl over the waistband, tugging his pants the rest of the way down to pool around his knees. 

You reach for the already _impressive_ outline of his cock pressing against his boxers, but Paz cupping your cunt through your underwear just before you touch Din is _distracting_. You gasp and arch as Paz digs the heel of his palm against your clit, electrifying ecstasy zipping down your spine with each touch. 

There’s a _twinge_ of guilt after Din huffs and drags your limp wrist back to his cock, this time encouraging you to palm him by guiding your actions with his own hand until you lazily oblige. Din’s quiet grunts, gravely against the vocoder do nothing but throw more jet fuel to the fire inside your belly. The growing urge to _actually_ touch him gnaws and corrodes the forefront of your brain. With a firm yank his boxers are quick to join his trousers and _Maker_ —

_Fuck—_

Will he even _fit?_

Din is _thick_ , rosy brown and flushed at the tip and beginning to curl towards his bellybutton. A bead of liquid shines at the tip, dribbling down the underside as he wraps his fist around the base of his length. He gives himself a languid stroke before he, _once again,_ reminds your hand of what it’s _supposed_ to be doing. Din is _searing_ in your palm, molten and stiffening to hardened steel in your grip. 

“You look so fuckin’ _pretty_ like this,” Din hisses as his head rolls back onto his shoulders. “S-so pretty holding my cock.”

Your desperation tears at your insides, insatiable and _Maker—_ you wanna _taste_ him. You want to hear every little stuttered moan and feel each twitch of his hips as he claims your mouth as his own. 

But before you’re able to ask Din if he’d be willing to fuck your throat, Paz grips your knee and slings your leg over his thigh, murmuring praise as he peels off your underwear. Paz’s hand snakes down to your pussy and runs two thick fingers through your already slick cunt, then delicately parts your folds. 

It’s like a fucking _bomb_ going off as his thumb grazes over your swollen clit. His forearm locks tight around your waist, keeping you in place as you arch and tremble. Paz is feather light and _teasing_ , as he strokes over the little bundle of nerves in a painstakingly slow rhythm. 

_“Paz—“_

He nudges your cheek with his helmet and chuckles. “You’re so sensitive, _vaar’ika._ Such _lovely_ noises too.” 

Paz trades in his light touches for using his two fingers instead. They form a relaxed ‘v’ shape, trapping your clit in between the digits as he massages in a steady up and down motion. You cry out, every nerve shocked and flooded with saccharine pleasure, shoving you so _treacherously_ close to that precarious edge of release. 

You have no fucking _chance_ as a different set of fingers, leaner in length but just as bulky, carefully prod at your entrance. Din’s pointer finger slides into your cunt, quickly adding a second as your core clenches and stretches for him. The dual sensations over your clit and Din’s fingers steadily pumping and curling inside you send you _hurling_ into that dazzling white-hot pleasure. 

Throwing your head back, you cry out—a jumbled mess of their names or just nonsense— pleasure crackling out from your core and all the way down your legs. Your cunt tightens like a vice around Din’s digits, your legs twitching as your high dips into prickly overstimulation. You whine, and swat at Paz’s hand, Din pulling out his own fingers a moment later and wiping your wetness on the inside of your thigh. 

Your head rests in the crook of Paz’s shoulder as your breath fans across the side of his helmet, fogging up the metal where the blue paint is chipped and scraped away. The shirt he wears smells a bit like sweat but the underlying scent of him is comforting—worn leather and something crisp, like fresh laundry. You don’t _mean_ for the words to slip out—

You _know_ better than that, but everything feels muddled and silly _and, and, and—_

“I wish I could kiss you.” 

It’s like dousing ice cold water on a pile of smoldering coals. A silence, petrifying and like the inhale before jumping off a cliff and into a rocky sea, ensues. _Stupid, stupid, stupid—_

Paz shatters the fragile suspense with a rich laugh that burns away all the icy worry making itself a home in your ribcage. He moves his arm up, his fingers gripping your jaw to fix your gaze onto the other Mandalorian. “You want _his_ mouth on you too?” 

You whimper and nod, but it isn’t _enough_. 

“Use your voice _vaar’ika_ ,” Paz hums, pressing the crown of his helmet against your cheek. “Tell us want you want.” 

“I- _fuck—”_ Paz’s fingertips sneak up your torso, rough callous catching deliciously on your skin. “I wan’t your mouth on me. B-both of you.” 

Paz chuckles and releases his hold on your chin. “You’ll have to be blindfolded, sweet girl.”

Din scoffs, a harsh crackle through the vocoder. “Like she’d want to see _your_ face anyway.”

“ _Please_ ,” you mewl, turning your head to curl into Paz’s neck. It’s not _ideal_ , but it’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make. “I don’t _care_. I need—“

“Patience, little one,” Paz purrs, rubbing up and down your bare sides in a soothing manner. All it does is stoke the flames. “You’ll get what you want.” 

Paz shifts, reaching for your abandoned shirt and _stars_ —

You can feel his cock, firmer then tempered durasteel and poking into your lower back. _Oh, hell—_ these men are going to _ruin_ you. 

You’re nudged forward, your vision going dark once your shirt is securely tied around your head. The knot traps a few hairs that pull sharp against your scalp but the measly pain is worth it. _Oh_ so worth it. 

“Is it too tight?” You hear Din ask, concern lacing his gravely vocals. 

You wave your hand in dismissal. “S’fine.”

“Cant see anything either, right?” 

You squirm, your patience spreading thin. “Din, _please.”_

“ _Fine_.” There’s no bite to his tone and under different circumstances you’d have more composure. Acknowledge that they’re putting their religion, their whole _being_ into your hands—a fragile trust that could so easily be shattered. 

Your ears pick up their subtle movements, their helmets landing onto the thin mat with soft _thunks_. With bated breath you wait for them to jump into action, seize every spare moment to taste your skin and breathe the same air. But—

“You need a haircut, vod.”

“And _you_ need to shave.” Retorts Din with bitter indignation. 

“It’s hardly even stubble.” He chortles. You giggle and twist away as he scrapes his prickly cheek up and down your neck. “Besides— _she_ likes it.” 

There’s another lull, and with the blindfold everything is amplified—the quick and quiet breathing of Din on your right and the slide of fabric against skin as Paz shifts. Your attention is captured by Din’s bare palm, warm and calloused like weathered leather left out in the afternoon sun. He caresses the outside of your thigh in smooth, longing strokes, enraptured by the softness of your skin. You whimper and let your leg fall open, exposing more of your thigh for his curious exploration. 

The sudden touch on your cheek is jarring. You _know_ Paz is there—it’s not an easy thing to forget the solid chest you’re leaning against but it’s hard to _focus_. Difficult to settle on one thought before it slips away like grains of sand between a clenched fist. Paz’s touch is heavier than Din’s, ambitious and greedy but… _mindful._ Even as his fingers spread along your jaw and drag you into a deep, mouthwatering kiss. It’s… _stars_ — 

There’s _nothing_ that can describe this. No word that could ever hold a candle up to the way his lips, plush and soft, move against yours. His nose brushes against your cheek as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss, his warm tongue sliding against the seam of your bottom lip. 

You whine and bury your hand into his hair as Paz groans, a low rumble in his throat. You wonder what color it is, but carding your fingers through the curls atop his head suffices for now.

Your curiosity is abruptly ended as Din’s hand snakes around your forearm. You’re forcibly yanked away, only to be met with another pair of lips. Din murmurs an apology at the sting of his teeth bumping into your upper lip, but the pain is hardly the first thing on your mind. 

Din’s kiss is _devouring_ — 

Scalding and bright—the galaxy, a thousand suns, all there ever will be and all that ever was. The way his lips move against yours is a devastatingly sharp contrast to the steady, syrupy sweet kiss Paz offers. Desperate and eager to surround you in his own arms—steal away any lingering thought and replace it with _him_. _Din Djarin—_

You gasp as Din’s teeth nibble and pull on your bottom lip, only a moment before he surges closer, wrapping his hand around your jaw to hold it open as he licks deep into your mouth. Breaking for air, Din tangles his fingers into your hair at the base of your neck and yanks, baring the column of your throat. His travels down, the tender kisses morphing into teasing nips and lingering sucks that’ll turn into tender bruises in the morning. 

Din hovers over your breasts, his heated breath and cooling saliva the catalyst to the goosebumps that rush over your skin. He lightly tugs on your nipple using his teeth, then plants a sweet kiss over your sternum. 

“Can I taste you?” Din murmurs, his lips ghosting over your flesh. “ _Maker_ —wanna put my mouth on you.” 

“ _Din_ —“ A different set of lips latching onto the juncture of your neck and hijacks your train of thought. Wipes your mind clean until Paz is the sole thing you can consciously focus on. 

Paz laves his tongue over the shell of your ear and urges you to lean back against him once more. Your nose scrapes against his stubble as you tuck your head into the crook of his neck, his hips lazily rolling his hardened cock into your backside. 

“Or…” Paz rumbles, capturing your hand and interlacing your fingers with his. You marvel at the sheer _size_ of his palm—astounded _still_ when he leads his and your hands to palm his cock. “I could give you _this._ Fuck your pretty little cunt until you’re _screaming_ for me _.”_

It’s a punch to the gut. Why the _fuck_ do you have to _choose?_ You squirm as Din points his tongue over your nipple then sucks it into his mouth. 

Working through the fog in your head, the answer is clearer than fucking _crystal._ Because _who_ in their right mind would turn down a Mandalorian’s request to eat you out? Not you, _that’s_ for sure. “ _Din_ —want your mouth.”

Din huffs in triumph and slips between your legs that part to accommodate his broad shoulders, leaving no patch of bare skin untouched and worshiped. You shiver as his tongue circles around your bellybutton then retreats. Din settles his head beside your knee and mouths a kiss there. 

You whine his name and buck your hips, heart beating wildly in your ears. The teasing is unbearable and, _stars_ —if he doesn’t start _now_ — 

He nibbles on the inside of your thigh, laving his warm tongue over each mark he leaves behind, buffering the sting of his teeth. Din snake his hands under your ass, hooking your knees over his shoulders as he heaves your cunt closer to his mouth. Din’s thumbs part your soaking pussy, his breath hot fanning over your cunt. His tongue his _scalding_ —like liquid velvet as he dips the tip of his tongue from the base of your slit all the way up to your clit. 

Din sucks on the little bundle of nerves, rolling his tongue until you’re crying out, molten pleasure zipping through you. He grunts as your fingers tangle into his hair— _fuck_. _Fuck_ , you need _more_. 

Arching into his mouth, all thoughts are obliterated; nothing but the warmth of his tongue, and his lips, devouring you as if he were a man seconds from death and you’re his saving grace. That frenzied desperation lingers on the edges of his movements like he’s afraid you’ll fade into smoke—but you’re not going _anywhere_. Not even a _million_ credits could convince you to push Din’s head away. 

He sinks two fingers into your clenching hole and curls his fingers, stroking and curling his fingertips to make you sing. Zeros in on that little spot that causes the involuntary twitches of your leg and wrenches embarrassing, high pitched mewls that fill the room. You’re careening towards your high, the sensitivity of your last orgasm amping up the influx of pleasure. 

“ _Shit_ — _Din._ Close—I’m _so_ close,” you gasp, pulling his hair tight enough that you _know_ it must hurt. He makes no sign that it _does,_ just groans and buries his tongue into your dripping hole, licking alongside his fingers that shovel more of your wetness into his mouth. 

Your release unfurls through your body like sticky molasses—smoldering embers that seep into each limb until they’re heavier than lead. _Fuck_ —it’s so hard to _think_ and at this rate your brain is as good as _gone_. 

You pay only a _fraction_ of attention to Din as he kisses his way back up your body and lands a final one over your lips. His thumb grazes over your chin, his gravelly words of praise cutting through some of that foggy haze, _how good you were, how fucking delicious you tasted when you came on his tongue_. You taste your own arousal on his mouth as he noses your cheek and captures your lips in another kiss. 

“Are you done?” Paz asks dryly, much too barbed to be thrown your way. You groan when Paz jostles your limp body as he hoists you back into his lap.

“Just starting, actually,” Din quips. “Why don’t you hand her back over? I’ve got some more things I wanna try.” 

Paz scoffs and secures a heavy arm around your middle. “Greed will get you nowhere.” 

“Neither will your arrogance.” 

“Shut _up_ — _both_ of you,” you interrupt. Your voice is raw and choppy but it does the job. “Just _fuck_ me already.”

For _now_ their little spat is sidelined—it’s not worth ripping off that bandage of a temporary truce. There’s a chaste moment of quiet, like they’re _considering_ tearing into each other’s throats instead, but with a touch to Paz’s thigh the standoff fizzles out. 

“We need to work on your manners,” Paz suggests, curling his large, calloused hand around your neck in a loose hold. “I believe it’s _please_ fuck me.” 

_Maybe_ if you weren’t practically a pile of brainless goo, you’d _argue_. See how far you can _push_ —though this time you fold. “ _Please_ fuck me. P-please—I _need_ it.” 

Seemingly satisfied with your answer; Paz wedges a hand between your bodies to grip his cock and run the tip through your folds, soaked from you own wetness and Din’s saliva. The head of his member nudges at your entrance, and wether it’s his _size_ or the fact you can’t _see_ anything—you _panic_. 

Your hand shoots out, nails harpooning into the meat of his forearm. “ _W-wait_ —you’re too _b-big_.” 

Paz freezes and moves you up his lap and presses a kiss over you hairline. “We can stop. Just say—“

“N-no, I’m fine,” you assure, planting an apologetic peck on his stubbled jaw. Stopping is the _last_ thing you want to do—it was just… _overwhelming._ A sensory overload testing the very fringes of your being _._ “Go slow?”

You feel his head bob in compliance as he moves you back to where you’re hovering over his cock. You relax this time, not as many alarm bells clanging through your head as your cunt flutters around the fat tip and then that glorious, first _thick_ inch. Paz’s thumb bumps over your throbbing clit, coaxing your pussy to take him further. 

“ _Yeah_ , that’s it _vaar’ika,”_ he grunts, his breath fanning over your neck in quick pants. “Taking my cock so _fucking_ well. So nice and _pretty_.”

Your pussy flutters, fresh waves of arousal hot and burning.You nearly keel over when Paz starts shallowly rocking his hips, easing your body the rest of the way down his length until the back of your thighs touch his. _Maker_ —how the _hell_ is he all the way inside? You can feel him in your fucking _guts—_

“See?” Paz purrs. He sucks a bruise into the meat of your shoulder and pushes his palm against your lower stomach, making the fit even _tighter_. “Fits fucking perfect.”

The noise your cunt makes pulling out and the debauched moan that filters through his vocal chords is _obscene._ If anyone where to walk by, _well—_ it’s certainly not _training_ that’s going on, for the better lack of words. 

Paz holds true to his word—keeps his pace limited to deep, languid thrusts that brush up against something that makes your whole body _shake—_ like strumming a golden chord molded to a musician’s fingers. _Fuck_ —he’s doing all the work too. Lifting you by the swell of your hips and pulling you down onto his cock with a rough buck of his hips. 

Abruptly, he slows to a gentle rocking—quick to lock you in place as you thrash and roll your hips. “ _Paz_ —n-no. Keep _going_. You n-need to—“

Paz silences your please with a wet, open mouthed kiss. “Our friend looks lonely. Why don’t you use that pretty mouth and suck his cock?” 

_Din._

You hear the man curse in Mando’a, probably some stab at Paz—

But with a pat to your outer thigh, you don’t need any more prompting—you’d give up your left hand to get a chance to suck him off. With the help of Paz, you’re eased onto your hands and knees, shocks of white-hot pleasure zipping through your core at the change of angle. Like this Paz is seated deeper inside, stabbing into each spot that makes you _sing._

_Fuck_ —your arms are shaking—only able to hold yourself up for half a click and then you’re sinking face first into the floor, ass in the air as he fucks into you. Paz clicks his tongue and wraps his arm around your front, pulling you back up from your slumped position. 

“I told you to _suck_ his cock, girl. Not take a _nap_.” Paz accentuates his words with heavy, well measured thrusts—the kind of force you _know_ will leave your whole lower half throbbing and sore in the aftermath. 

You whine as Paz grabs a hold of your jaw, digging into the tender joints until your mouth falls open. “ _Good_. Keep it like that.” 

Paz’s hand falls away, replaced by a softer touch. The pads of Din’s fingers hook under your chin, guiding and tempting you nearer to what rests between his legs, hot and heavy and _large_. 

You feel the tip of his cock, flushed and pulsing, rest on your bottom lip. You lap up the beads of sticky precum with kitten licks that morph into suckling the entire head. Din grunts out your name and tangles his hand into your hair as you tongue at the ridged frenulum. He never forces you to swallow down more of him—lets you cradle the first few inches in the wet warmth of your mouth and languidly roll the pad of your tongue around him. 

You _want_ to take him deeper, let Din fuck your throat raw, but your jaw already _aches_. Your lips are pulled tight around his shaft, drool dribbling down your chin and landing on the mat below. You’re not sure if you could _take_ more of him without the danger of your teeth catching or dislocating your jaw. So you manage like this—hollowing out your cheeks and and using the momentum of Paz’s thrusts to pleasure Din. 

It’s _frustrating_ —it _must_ be each time you let his cock slip out of your mouth to breathe or the fact Din isn’t able to fucking _fit_ his cock into your mouth. Annoying that you aren’t able to think properly to help him out a bit ore when that said brain is being fucked straight outta you, put through the wringer and then body slammed onto duracrete. 

Din cups your cheek, strokes over your skin with his thumb and maneuvers himself out of your mouth. You whine and lean into his palm, his touch addictive like smoldering coals in the dead of winter. 

“You want me there instead of him?” Din purrs, using the tips of his index and middle fingers to tilt your chin and drag you into an open mouthed kiss. “Fuck you like you _deserve_.” 

The profane imagery of Din between your legs instead makes you clench tight. It only takes a couple seconds and a few more feverish kisses before you’re nodding to his request. Paz mutters a swear, hesitates, and _reluctantly_ pulls out, leaving your cunt empty and aching with need. 

Din, however, is speedy—quick to hoard you to himself and yank your legs over his hips so that you’re draped on his lap. He jumps straight to the point, no fancy maneuver or drawn out teasing—just grabs the base of his cock, slides the flushed tip between your folds and sinks into your cunt. Even after your pussy had been stretched and molded around Paz’s length, you struggle to take Din’s entire cock into your aching center. It’s _easier_ than Paz but, _Maker_ —not by _much_. 

You whine, harpooning your fingernails into his shoulder once he bottoms out. Din snarls a curse and latches his teeth onto the juncture between your neck and shoulder, prickly pain shooting directly to your belly. “Fucking _tight_. H-how— _fuck_.”

There’s no time to adjust before Din sets a pace, harsh and desperate—his hands digging into the flesh of your ass for better leverage. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end before it could be yanked out from under him. Din’s staggered exhales below your ear are interlaced with subdued moans that start low in his ribcage then dip into a higher, airy pitch. A delicate sound you’ll guard closer to your chest than any secret you possess for the rest of your life—precious and _yours_. 

Din turns his head to steal a kiss. “You feel fuck—fucking _good_. Wanna feel you cum around me. S-squeezed so fucking _hard_ around my fingers—“

You choke out a groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully _wetter._ Heat sizzles down each vertebrae in your spine, burning up each and every cell with the brilliance of a wildfire. _Stars_ , this is gonna destroy you. 

Din’s hand sneaks between your bodies and rubs tight, little circles over you swollen clit. There’s no build up to your orgasm—just a blinding surge of blistering warmth that knocks you off your feet and steals away all the air left in your lungs. Your nails dig into Din’s back as you shake and grapple for a foothold in your own consciousness—the steady warmth of his body a much needed anchor for the madness that threatens to drown you. 

“ _Good girl_ , _”_ Din praises, pace faltering from just how tight your pussy squeezes and flutters around his cock. “S-such a fucking _good_ girl for me.” 

Regaining some semblance of control, you realize he’s still fucking _going—_ still rock solid and throbbing, fucking you through the aftershocks of your release. Your arousal turns sharp, like rough cotton over a fresh sunburn as it dips into overstimulation. It’s not _unpleasant_ but Din has to slow his hips to a delicate roll for you to recover. 

In the time it takes to inhale, a different calloused hand kneads into your lower back then smoothes up your spine. A second later you feel the scrape of Paz’s stubble prick along your exposed shoulder as his tongue drags along your sweat dampened skin—all the way up the curve of your neck and ending at the shell of your ear. 

You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but as Paz crowds closer the tip of his cock pokes at your other hole. With a surprised mewl, you tense and shy away—but he follows, molds his chest against your back to sandwhich you in. The hand gripping your bicep jumps to your neck and pulls your head against his shoulder. 

Two of Paz’s fingers dip down the curve of your ass and brush along the puckered skin—far less _jarring_ this time. “Do you want to be fucked here too?” 

_Maker_ —

You’re gonna fucking _explode._

Stuffed to the brim already, it’s hard to imagine Paz cramming himself in along with Din. A little red light blares in some corner of your mind but it’s quickly soothed as Paz plants soft kisses over your cheek and jaw. You trust him—there’s no reason to think he’ll hurt you or push you to the point of pain.

You catch his mouth with a kiss and rock your hips back. “Y-yeah, ok. I trust you.” 

You feel his smile curl against your cheek. “Don’t worry _vaar’ika_ —I’ll take care of you.”

Paz strokes your bottom lip with his thumb and kisses the crown of your hairline as you sink into him. With his ring and middle finger, he pushes past the seam of your lips. “Suck.”

You obey, sealing your lips around his two digits and coating them in your saliva. Paz pulls them out with a _pop_ and moves them between your legs, and with the added wetness dripping from your cunt, the first finger is easy enough. The second and third have you gasping as he scissors them and stretches your tight hole wider. You claw your nails into Din’s shirt—and he’s no better—Din’s own hands are clamping around your hips, struggling to keep still and biting back moans each time your cunt constricts. 

Your hips begins to meet the thrusts of Paz’s fingers as your body familiarizes the feel of him there. It’s a deep thrill that rushes up through your spinal cord—much _different_ from anything you’ve felt before. 

“You like this, don’t you?” Paz goads, chuckling when you whine as he extracts his fingers. “I think you’re ready to take my cock, yeah?”

You shudder and nod, your voice no more than a squeak as it pilfers out. Paz strokes the top of your head and tips you forward into Din’s eager arms as Paz slicks up his length in a mix of precum and your dripping arousal. He touches the swell of you ass in warning, lines himself up with your hole and wedges the tip of his cock inside of you. 

Involuntary tears dampen your makeshift blindfold as Paz buries himself deeper, his rumbling tone urging you to _relax—relax_ even though your mind is drowning in an ocean of arousal and swirling emotions you have no hope to pin down and analyze. It’s for the best—thankful as Paz bottoms out that it wrenches you back to a feasible reality you’re able to manage.

“ _Shit—_ I-I’m gonna _die_ —“ You sob, writhing at just how _full_ you are. But there’s nowhere to fucking _go_ — 

“Easy,” Din breathes, and you wonder if he’s said it to keep his _own_ head on his shoulders. “ _Easy_.”

Din’s gravelly rasp cuts through the fog in your head, and _stars_ —you sound like you’re fucking _dying_. Your wheezy breaths and lightheadedness would certainly _suggest_ that—but no…no, you’re fine. _Better_ than fine. 

A rush so acute and devastating launches up your spine as Din’s patience cracks. He experimentally rolls his hips and that’s the end of it. You’re swallowed up in that riptide you fought so hard to avoid— _fuck._ You won’t be the same after this. How can you? 

You can feel them both, separated by a thin wall as they sprint towards their own highs. You’re never once left empty—Din reaches the end of you as Paz pulls out and while there’s not exactly any _finesse_ involves it’s the best fucking thing you’ve felt in your entire life. There’s no bickering—no teasing and you’re struck with an idea that makes you clench tight around both of them. You wouldn’t mind if _this_ was the way they decided to settle scores or _finally_ see eye to eye. 

This time you can’t discern your high—just a constant overflow of ecstasy and dazzling arousal like an imploding supernova. You cry their names—sob and shake in their hold with such fervor that Paz traps you tighter between them to keep you still. 

“ _Fuck_ —you get so fucking _tight,”_ Paz growls, blunt nails digging into your hips. “And so fucking _wet_.”

His fingers touch the inside of your thigh and stars—he’s _right_. “I get to fuck your cunt next time—see how much you’ll drip for _me_.” 

Even if the blindfold were off—there’d be nothing to see but a white wash of _nothing_. Blinded by pleasure and bursting at the seems. 

Jealous, Din steals your breath away with a kiss, licking and nipping at your swollen lips until you whine his name. His jagged pants fan across your chin—chapped lips and patchy facial hair tickling across your bottom lip as you breath the same air. 

Din whispers your name like a prayer, his fingers clutching tight around your thighs as his pace starts to flounder to choppy jerks. “Shit. I-I’m close—“

Your fingers twist into his hair. “ _Yeah_ —ok baby. _Let go_.”

Din’s teeth sink into the base of your throat and cums. His seed coats your insides—hot and copious and _fucking shit_ —if there’s a next time you want him to cum in your _mouth_. 

You don’t get time to relish Din’s stuttered gasps of your name, laced with praise and a show of a tender and bleeding heart before Paz is gathering up your hair in a tight fist and jerking your head up. “You—you want me to cum too? _Say it_.” 

Without a breath of hesitation you beg for it, cry and arch into him. It does the trick—

Paz is loud—shouts a thunderous roar and buries his cock deep into your hole. Din is still recovering from the aftershocks of his release when Paz pulls out after what seems like ages pumping you full. His cock no longer there to plug you up, his cum begins to dribble out and mix with the mess between your legs. Your legs shake and you wobble--crying out as Din slips out, your body dreadfully empty and _aching_. 

You're lowered to the mat by Din and if you weren't still trying to formulate words, you'd _thank them._ Lips dart over your cheeks and hairline, and for once nothing needs to be said. It’s nice...the radiating warmth from their bodies and the simmering flush through you body is something you could get used to. But you’re no stranger to the shifting tides of the future. 

You shrug it off. 

Your eyes are heavy and with one of them stroking your hair and the other your thigh, you drift to sleep. _Later_ —later all unspoken things and disastrous words can be dealt with tomorrow. You must be dreaming when it’s said--careless and bold, but the words nestle into your heart and sprouts with fear. 

“You love her, _don't_ you?” 


	2. Sink Your Teeth In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sO how about that EPSIsODE HUH?!?! welcome back to me SCREAMING AH, hope you enjoy and if you wanna chat hit me up @jangofctts on Tumblr!

_Well—_

Here you are. 

Taken by surprise by _another_ bounty, further proving how irrevocably _incompetent_ you are at this line of work. You blame the binders. An older, clunkier model—easy to pick if you’re clever enough and _yes_. _Maybe_ you should’ve asked to borrow a carbonite chamber, but _hey—_ where’s the fun in that? 

_Not much,_ as it so happens _._

Your feet had been kicked up on the dashboard, dozing and unaware of the freed bounty creeping up behind the pilot’s seat. _Something_ delightfully blunt smashed against your temple, jolting you into a brief conscious state where the only thing you could think before passing out _again,_ was a resounding— 

_Oh_ , _fuck me sideways with a fucking lightsaber_ —

The rest is hazy. A blur of colors and the fuzzy shapes of your bounty’s face sneering in amusement when she bound your wrists and ankles and left you in the cargo hold. Vaguely you recall your ship being commandeered, swung into an unidentified atmosphere and landing on said unknown planet Or _planets_. Planet hopping to cover up a trail. 

The bitter cold, sharper than a needle through skin is what shook off the last dregs of unconsciousness. The bounty’s hand was hooked into the collar of your clothes, dragging your limp body through drifts of snow and ice. You would’ve fought back— _should’ve_ even though each extremity felt like a numb block of lead. Not very useful in a fight…

Soon, the snow turned to mud and the mud to stone as a mouth of a cave slid over the impossibly blue sky. Dumped in a cave, and left to die— _perfect_ way to bite the dust. Your bounty turned captor lands a sharp kick to your ribs, mouthing some curse in a language you don’t understand, and left without a second thought. 

Seems about right. You have a knack for lying helpless and half dead in places you ought not to be in. 

Two days and counting, you’ve been holed up in this _blasted_ cave with no food, no supplies and no comlink. It’s going be a fucking _chore_ to find you—nearly _impossible_. You’re lucky in that aspect you guess—you know enough bounty hunters to sniff out a a needle in a whole _stack_ of needles, so all it is is a race of time against the elements and how long it takes for one of them to _notice_. 

Aeris is no help. He left a day before you had—hired as personal protection for some syndicate leader halfway across the galaxy. Ives is in a similar boat, off-world and unavailable to drag your ass out of the hole you’ve dug. Which leaves…

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose between your forefinger and thumb. Anytime you even _think_ of those two a migraine cumulates behind your eyes. It’s…it’s not like anything _bad_ happened in the aftermath—there’s been no fallout or arguments with barbed words as weapons. It’s been _quiet_. Like stepping onto a sheet of cracked transparisteel in a library full of tight-lipped academics. 

The questions lurk under the surface of every conversation and longing look cast your way. You’ll need to clarify and sort things out _eventually,_ but _fuck—_ it’s such a mess of frazzled heartstrings and fine strands of impossible thoughts that lead into an endless void of doubt. You’re shoving that emotional time bomb to the _very_ back of your mind—everything is still so _raw_ … 

So you ran. 

Picked up any and all jobs that the Guild provided just to escape the looming decision of confronting a certain pair of Mandalorians. That and with them having their own tasks to complete, it was rare to see them, let alone _together_ in the past few weeks. A simple run in here and there in the halls of the Covert, but you were too busy to stop and chat—forced a chaotic schedule upon yourself as an excuse to avoid staying in once place at a time. 

_Coward_.

The word knots in your stomach like gnarled tree roots escaping their prison of dark soil on untrodden land. 

Maker—how did everything become so _tangled?_

You draw your knees up to your chest and release a long, drawn out exhale that echoes through the cave. You sniff and force the swell of tears that prick at your eyes away. You’re pretty sure they’ll _freeze_ and you’re not hoping to find out. 

The only _good_ thing about being dropped on this Maker-forsaken, wasteland devoid of anything _but_ snow, is the free ice for the nasty gash on your forehead. A nice little parting gift. 

It’s shallow…you _think—_ it stopped bleeding the night before and is now just a scabbed over, tender wound that throbs whenever you move your head too fast. Concussion maybe—a mild one. 

Maker willing when someone finds your sorry ass they’ll have bacta. Or a blanket. Either would be _peachy_. 

Sitting up with a wince, you shuffle to the mouth of the cave for the thousandth time and scour the skyline for a familiar ship. Or, _any_ ship really. The only thing you _do_ see is a lonesome wisp of cloud against the grayish blue sky _much_ to your chagrin. You scowl and stalk back into your little hovel and slump back onto the ground. 

The hours drag on, the watery light of the dying sun barely doing anything to warm you. Sulking is hardly what you should be doing—not great for the burdened mind and all that, but _ah_ , it’s so _fun_ to wallow in misery. You curl your knees up to your chest and you must slip into a doze because when you’re snapped back into the present, footsteps punch through the frozen tundra outside your cave. 

Adrenaline crackles down your spine— _the bounty changed her mind_. Ultimately decided she’d be safer in the long run with you dead. _Fine_.

If this is where your grave is going to be, might as well get in one or two punches. What’s another black eye anyway?

A shadow flickers at the mouth of the cave, curling around the wall as she draws closer. A brown boot kicks through the snow and— 

“Changed your mind? I _—“_

Your words die on your tongue as relief floods your veins. Din Djarin stands before you, a sight for sore eyes in these _trying_ times. 

Frost glitters on the burgundy chest plate, glinting in the dim sunlight that touches the mouth of the cave. A delicate feathering of the dainty crystals that no high end lace maker could ever hope to mimic curls up the front of Din’s visor and eats away at the edges of his cloak. His heavy step forward reverberates off the walls, some of that ease replaced by the prickle of dread. His silence is unnerving. 

“Din _,_ ” you say again, just so he’ll _say_ something. “I can—“

You move to stand, but he interrupts with a halting;

“ _Sit_.” 

Your mouth snaps shut and you drop back on the floor. This…is _not_ good. His footsteps are heavy as he approaches you and every muscle in your frame tightens like a fist wrapping around your ribcage and squeezing. The precise edges of his helmet are not a forgiving sight and even when he kneels onto one knee you have to resist the natural urge to flinch. Like this, despite hunching over, Din is _broad_. All hard muscle and sinew amplified by the bulky layer of beskar. 

Your tongue runs over the insides of your teeth as you track his hand that he thrusts foreword. You hiss and jerk away at the sudden needly pain when his gloved thumb finds the edges of your head wound. A low sound of disapproval filters out through the helmet in a low metallic buzz. 

“You won’t need stitches,” he says. Din reaches into one of his various supply pouches and pulls out a tiny vile of bacta. He casually pulls off his right glove, unscrews the vile and smears the bacta over his thumb. This time you don’t make a sound, even though your nerves scream at the razor like sensation of his thumb working the bacta into the damaged flesh. He doesn’t ask how the injury happened and you don’t care to tell him. There’s a time and place for stories about battle scars and near misses—it’s much too fresh to be spoken of right now. 

The brief torture finally ends after once last glance over for other presenting injuries. He finds none, replaces his glove and stands with a muted grunt. You know what’s next. You’d rather avoid it—you aren’t keen on the berating lectures—as deserved as they are. 

“I found your ship on Sato 3,” Din begins with a growl. “Imagine my surprise when I found your bounty selling it for _parts_.” 

_Ah_ , _there it is_. You wince and study your fingernails. “Pile of junk anyway…”

“I thought you’d be smarter about these things,” he snarls, his sharp tone deadly enough to slice through bone. “Was the hole blown into your lung not enough for you?”

You swallow and bite your tongue. 

The bristling Mandalorian, continues and jabs an orange tipped finger at you. “ _You_ are _reckless_.”

Your chest constricts as you look away, shame blooming in the pit of your stomach.This is a new facet of Din you’ve never encountered. You aren’t naïve—even the most docile of people can harbor a temper, you _know_ that. And you _know_ Din is by no means _passive_ —he’s an elite warrior equipped with a small arsenal at his disposal. You don’t expect him to coddle you or treat you different than any other companion; _but_ …but it’s hard not to take his ire to heart. Not when it’s the kind of anger that boils deep in your chest and erupts with molten streams that leaves scathing wounds and blistered feelings. 

You chew your lip hard enough to taste blood and avoid his piercing gaze. You think if you do you might catch fire and burn to a crisp. “I’m sorry.” 

The meek apology settles in the air like a heavy fog. Din’s anger still brews, looming and dark but he reigns in his temper and switches out the searing cadence of his words with chilly informality. You’re not sure which is worse. 

“No more bounties.” 

“ _What?_ ” Your brows knit together. The _fuck_ does he _mean_. 

“No more hunts alone—“ 

You interrupt with a scoff. “You’re _grounding_ me?”

He strides across the small space and plants himself on the opposing wall. “Until you’re competent enough, you have no business being out in the field. You might as well be _bait_ at this point.” 

“ _Competent_.” You echo through clenched teeth. 

His helmet dips, leveling a steady glare of indifference. “The Crest is a half cycle’s walk from here. In the morning I’m taking you back to Nevarro.” 

“I’m _not_ a child. You can’t just,” you throw your hands up in dismay, “ _ban_ me from bounty hunting.” 

Din’s armor clinks together as he moves to sit. He rests one elbow on his propped up knee, extends his other and rolls his helmet to meet your eyes. “Your actions reflect the Covert now. We can’t risk discovery because of one stupid _mistake_ or a careless loose end.” 

That hadn’t even crossed your mind. _Stars,_ you want to smack yourself. Your ship, as shitty as it was, hosted a good chunk of sensitive information, all encrypted and translated into binary. A mediocre slicer could hack through it in hours. Not exactly foolproof but hey, at least you had _something_. Good thing your bounty wasn’t in the market of selling stolen ships to the Empire. 

“Din?”

The Mandalorian makes no noise of affirmation that he heard you. You sigh and take his silence as a go ahead and clear your throat. “How long was I gone for?”

Here, in the cave it’s been nearly three days, but the rest of it you’re not exactly sure. Hunting the bounty down took up at least a week or two and even longer to _capture_ her and there’s no accounting for the time lost after your ship was commandeered. Your teeth roll over your bottom lip as you wait for him to respond. 

“Almost two months.” He replies evenly. “Your transmissions were cut three weeks ago and I didn’t think anything of it. Comms are always patchy in Wild Space."

Leather creaks as his fist balls at his side. “You didn’t answer for days. Paz and I tracked the ship to Sato 3, but you weren’t _there_. Do you know how difficult it was to pick through all the planets recorded on your log?”

You blink and return to picking at your fingernails. 

“You weren’t easy to find, I—“ He severs the rest of his sentence with a crackling sigh and tilts his head back. “You’re _lucky_.” 

The hesitance lacing his words makes you bite your tongue, the snarky retort crumbling to ash in your mouth. Din doesn’t bother to filter his words—he’s blunt. Efficient and to the point when he _does_ decide to speak. That…well _that_ was different. 

He was _worried_ —

You rub at your cheek—numb with the cold and curl into yourself. Din was _worried_. Easily the most feared bounty hunter in the parsec, worried that he couldn’t _find_ you. 

A different cold—one that settles deep into the marrow of your bones and hugs your soul with a sheet of frost, makes a home in your heart. The severity of what could’ve happened replaces that sheen of hilarity and _fuck_. You were closer to freezing to death than Din finding you here—alone in some stupid kriffing cave. 

Somehow the idea of that is worse than the brief brush of eternal slumber you had on Nar Shaddaa. Up to that point you _expected_ to die young—no harm and no foul in it either. You had no attachments, no debt to pay—a drifter in an endless galaxy. 

Now you’re here, buckling under the weight of mismanaged friendships and your uncanny skill at weaseling into any and all trouble. 

Neither you or Din jump to fill the silence. The ashes of disaster settle in nicely with the frozen echo of an endless winter. 

It’d been a couple hours shy from sunset when Din arrived, the sun providing weak light that hardly touched the mouth of the cave. Now as the shadows grow longer and with the temperature dropping, the two of you are swallowed up by the unyielding darkness of night. 

Din shuffles and fishes out the solar light from his supply bag. It clicks on and warm, orange light illuminates the cave. It bounces off his beskar, fracturing the light like a million tiny suns in the tempered metal and in the impossibly dark visor. He looks up, and tosses the light over. 

You catch it easily and despite the warmness of the light it emits, it offers no heat for your chilled fingers. You set it to the side and tuck your hands into your armpits. 

By no means is the cave _warm—_ the natural thermal vents kept the ground dry and free of the ice and snow that rages outside, but it doesn’t protect you from the occasion chilly draft that cuts through _each_ layer you wear. Then again, you weren’t planning on taking an unexpected vacation on _Csilla_. No time to plan really. 

You sigh and pull your knees up to your chest and cast a glance at your _ever_ radiant ray of sunshine across from you. 

_He_ looks nice and cozy—leaned back against the cave wall, one leg crossed over the other while his hands sit intertwined just below his navel. The beskar must provide insulation—maybe a fancy heater in that bucket of his, or maybe he’s just too stubborn to show anything _other_ than indifference. 

Another bout of shivers tear through your frame and you’re _certain_ Din can hear the enamel of your teeth clack together. You shove your hands deeper into your armpits and tuck your chin into your chest to preserve heat and _pray_ that sleep isn’t far off—can’t be cold if you’re unconscious. 

Metal scrapes over stone as Din readjusts himself and you can _feel_ him looking at you. It’s not a terrible weight to bear; intense and analytic, _sure_ and in the past it would’ve unnerved you. Now, instead of it feeling like he were peeling back each fibre of your soul each time he stares, it’s _familiar_. A pattern of sorts—

It happens each time Din wrestles with an uncertain question. He deals in absolutes, and it’s no surprise he rarely knows what to say to you. 

_“_ You’re shivering,” he states. You roll your eyes. “Are you cold?”

“ _Boiling_ , actually,” you snip. “Why else would I forget a jacket?”

A sharp hiss of air crackles through the vocoder. “Don’t get mouthy with me. It was a _simple_ question.”

“Well—there’s not much to _do_ about it,” you sneer, watching your breath condensate in the air. “I’m freezing, exhausted, and _hungry_.” 

You _know_ you’re being snide—but your nerves feel like they’ve been severed at the root with a dull vibroblade. You have neither the time nor energy to spare for _simple_ questions. Din should understand that—seeing as he’s a man familiar with short temperament.

The space between you is ripe with crackling tension, and maybe—if you weren’t so fucking _cold—_ you’d play the mediator. Thread stitches into the gash you both sliced into your friendship, as small it may be. You’ve lost friends over less— _this_ could end up no different.

You sigh and turn your head. _This_ is a problem for _tomorrow_. 

Irritated and upset, you squeeze your eyes shut and chase after sleep. You slip in a doze faster than expected, any and all discomfort fading away a you toe the line between a deeper sleep and waking dreams. You think you imagined Din saying your name— _Maker_ you can’t even escape him in your own fucking _head—_

It doesn’t end—like a nagging buzz that swells until it’s right near your ear. Spite spurs you to ignore It and exhaustion convinces you to drift further away. That is, until a hand, gentle and _warm_ curls around your shoulder. You once again hear your name rumble low through Din’s helmet, but it’s much too difficult to open your eyes. Why can’t he leave you be? You barely feel the cold now…

“Stay awake.” Din sounds distant, in some other plane of existence despite the steady hold he has on your arm. “ _Maker—_ you’re colder than kriffing _ice_.” 

“Go away,” you grumble through numb lips. Such a _pest_. 

He’s talking—but the words don’t make sense. Muddled—split between that hazy line of dreaming and consciousness where you can’t decipher what’s real. His _hands_ however—you can feel _those_ plain as day. A bare palm cups your cheek—shreds through the layer of frost you’re _positive_ has crystalized over your skin and rouses you to a more _coherent_ level of presentness. 

_“_ Don’t quit on me yet—“

“Nah,” you mumble. “I’m hard to…to kill. L-like a scrap rat…” 

Din grunts in response. “ _Rat_ is a compliment. You’re more of a spider-roach.”

The ends of your mouth quirk. It’s the best you can do—a full smile just might push you to the brink of death. 

_“_ C’mon—I won’t let either of us freeze,” Din sighs. His fingers find the magnetized latches on his cuirass and it slips off with practiced ease, the armored thigh plating following a moment later. He neatly sets it to the side and grabs his cloak to fasten it around you. With another sigh, Din shuffles in behind you and wraps an arm around your middle, nestling his legs and body snuggly around yours. 

_Maker—_ you don’t have time to bother about the _intimacy_ of this because all you’re drawn to is the furnace like _heat_. Fuck, he’s so warm. You have only a second to enjoy it before your body begins to thaw—bringing forth waves of achey pain. 

His chest molds to your back, both arms curling over your own arms that are scrunched up tight around your chest. You shake in his hold, vicious waves of cold clashing against his body heat—it _hurts—_ like sticking your bare foot into hot coals. 

You squirm, little gasps of discomfort slipping out that echo around the cave. Din shifts, tucking you further under his body until he’s nearly crushing you. It’s a bit tricky to breathe like this but _hey_ —you’re not complaining. Not when your nose is buried in his soft undershirt that smells purely of _Din_. 

Your fingers and toes still throb as they thaw, but it’s working. Cuddling Din Djarin to stave off hypothermia—sounds kriffing _ridiculous_. 

_“_ You’re still shivering,” he says. “I might…”

Your breath catches in your throat as he trails off. “Might what?”

Another shiver wracks through your body as his frosty helmet catches on bare skin when he dips his head in embarrassment. You don’t quite catch what he says and he doesn’t bother to clarify. “Forget it.” 

You turn your head as much as you can, straining your eyes to meet the strip of visor. “Tell me.”

He mumbles under his breath again and cuddles closer, slotting his hips against your ass. “Might know…know another way to keep us warm…”

_Oh_. 

A spark breathes to life in the pit of your tummy. You wiggle onto your back, your nose brushing the vizor. “Does it involve me taking off my pants?” 

Din huffs, his hands, previously latched onto your hips, starting to crawl up your waist. “It could…” 

You smirk and rock your hips back, eliciting a low growl that rumbles through his chest. With your whine of approval, Din’s hand slips between your legs and gives the meat of your inner thigh a squeeze. You let your knees fall open as far as they can in this position and it’s all Din needs to cup your cunt through the thin material of your trousers. 

Crackling pleasure flood your veins as the heel of his palm grinds into your clit, and while the pressure is _nice_ , it does nothing to satisfy. Only feeds the growing flames of desire with brittle kindling. 

You pull at his undershirt and whimper, thrilled once his deft fingers, calloused and thick unlace your pants and yank far enough down to fit his hand. His fingers trace your outer lips, a ghost of a touch as arousal swells in your stomach. He parts your folds once your wetness begins to dribble out and coats his fingertips with your arousal. 

_Stars_ —you _need_ him. You arch into him and whine. “Touch me _._ Din _, please—“_

You jerk as Din’s thumb swirls a slow circle over your clit, a rush of endorphins surging out like unrefined fire whiskey. Din’s head tilts to watch you writhe over his fingers and the sudden chill of his helmet touching the inside of your flushed neck steals away your next inhale. Goosebumps race down your entire being, adding to the influx of your excitement that pools in your lower belly. 

Your hands tangle into his undershirt, pulling him closer until you can’t find where he begins and you end. His heart pounds in his chest, thrumming to the dance of your own heart that yearns to break free from your ribcage. Your breath catches when two of his thick fingers tease at your entrance. Your walls flutter around him as the slip in easily. 

His fingers roll forward and stroke against something _devastating_ inside of you, and he when his palm rolls back, it bumps against your clit with that divine firmness you need. Your cunt tightens around the two digits as they curl. 

“ _Fuck._ Can you hear yourself?” He pants, groping your breast to elicit a high pitched wail. “You always make—make such _pretty_ noises.” 

Butterflies erupt in your stomach at his words and _fuck_. You’re already dipping head first into release. A moment later you’re arching into his chest as every muscle stiffens in a crescendo of bliss, your stuttered breathing harsh even to your own ears. 

Your quick pants fog up his visor as Din rests the crown of his helmet on your forehead, the metal a cool relief to your flushed skin. He slips his fingers out of your dripping cunt, your chest still heaving with exertion as the last strands of your high fizzle and ebb away. Din shifts and and snakes his fingers, still shiny and wet with your arousal, beneath the lip of his helmet and sucks them clean with an appreciative groan. 

“ _Fuck_ —“ You breathe, pushing your face into his hand as he cups your cheek. Din’s thumb brushes over your cheekbone and swings his leg over your hips to hoist himself over you. 

“Do you remember...” He starts, his voice buzzing through the vocoder. His fingers tickle down your cheek and trace the parted outline of your lips. “When you let me taste you?”

You nod, and it’s all you’re able to do. You’re not even sure you _can_ formulate words, let alone voice them right now. 

Din’s thumb pulls at your plush bottom lip, and you can’t help but slide your tongue along the digit. He grunts and slips his thumb into the wet heat of your mouth. “I think about you every night…how you came on my tongue—”

Your stomach flips as a rush of arousal sweeps through your tummy. You groan and you’re half sure you’re gonna dissipate into the floor from how hot your cheeks burn. “ _Din_ —" 

He continues without missing a beat. 

“You were so fucking _wet_ for me—dripped all over my hand,” he murmurs, nuzzling his helmet, still chilly and frosted over, into the crook of you neck. “I want to do it _again_ —can I?”

You’re nodding before he even finishes his _sentence._ He wasn’t the only one longing for his head between your thighs on those long nights apart. Remembering those plush lips and addictive touches could only get you so far and well—he’s _here_ now. You said it once and you’ll say it again—there’s no chance in _hell_ you’d be passing up this opportunity. 

Din lifts his head and as you watch the light glitter in the reflection of the beskar, a sudden stray thought ricochets into the forefront of your mind. “ _Din,_ the light—your _helmet_.”

He pauses, his body tensing as he mulls over his options. “It’s—I—it’s ok…It’ll be ok.”

Din inhales a stuttered breath and casts a brief glance over his shoulder. It’s a dim light, kicked into the corner and laying on its side. From this angle, his face would be partially obscured in shadow…but _still_. There are _easier_ ways to go about this. Ways that don’t risk jeopardizing the very foundation of who he _is—_ what he stands for and what he so devoutly follows. 

To say you know anything about his religion is _laughable_. Everything you _know_ can fit on the back of a thumbtack and even still, you’re sure that half of _that_ is still based upon rumor and speculation. But _this—_ what Din is hinting at, you _know_ is not something to be taken _lightly_. 

He’s stripping his soul bare for you—allowing you to glimpse at that bleeding heart of his he guards so securely within layers of flesh and bone and impenetrable beskar. Din is _gifting_ you his trust and there’s no where else to put it except for the space beneath your breast bone. 

Yet, even still—this could mean nothing at all. You have no way to know the exact magnitude of what this means to him. If _he’s_ alright with this, who are you to question?

He mumbles one last thing about the light and sits up. Goosebumps rush up your bare skin at the loss of the heavy warmth of his body. You whine and curl up closer to his legs, greedy for any spare iota of heat like you’ve been denied it your entire life. 

_Maker_ you hate this fucking planet— 

Your attention snaps back to Din when he makes a noise of uncertainty. His hands are cupped around his helmet—hesitant, _nervous_ and you suspect if Din’s hands weren’t plastered so tight around the metal, he’d be shaking. You chew on your lip and prop yourself up. 

Cautiously, so as not to startle, you reach up and curl your fingers around his wrist. You can feel his pulse thrumming through his veins— _alive,_ flesh and bone like _you_. Not some heap of sentient metal built for the horrors of war. You don’t know _why_ you do it—just seems right to pull the fragile and vulnerable skin of his inner wrist to you mouth. You plant a gentle kiss there and smile when he cups your cheek. 

“You don’t owe me anything, Din,” you say, staring into the darkened depths of his visor. “Least of all _this_.” 

Some of that tension held in Din’s shoulders melts. He utters something in that clipped language of his people, and the only thing you can make out is your name. He lurches foreword and _fuck—_ you’re terrified for a split second he’s gonna cave your skull in but instead he lightly bumps the crown of his helmet over your forehead. 

“I want to. For you— _only_ you.”

Din doesn’t leave _any_ time to unpack all of that. He sits up again, wraps his hands around the beskar— 

The metallic _thunk_ of the helmet reverberates through the cave like a crack of thunder. 

You were right. 

You can barely see his face—if you _really_ look, you can see the murky outline of his nose, dark hair and a sliver of his tan skin that the light touches. _Attractive_ —but you knew that already. You touch his cheek and smile, your thumb catching over wiry facial hair and soft skin. Din makes a sound low in his throat and pushes his cheek into your hand. 

“I still want to taste you,” Din says, his voice richer when stripped of that tinny vocoder. You like listening to him speak without it, you think, and it’s a damn _shame_ you never get to hear it. “ _Please_.” 

Before he can escape and fulfill that fantasy, you yank him into a blinding kiss. He kisses the same—all wild edges and with desperation lining each motion—but there’s a new found tenderness here. Like he’s savoring each gasp and every brush of skin you grace him with like it’s your last night left in the galaxy. 

He breaks away from your mouth and peppers kisses and nips down your jaw, then lower as you arch and expose the bare skin of your throat. There’ll be a _plethora_ of bruises tomorrow, and with no hope to cover them either but _fuck it—_ Din can leave as many hickeys and teeth marks as he _wants_. 

If not for the cold still latching onto your very _soul,_ you’d ditch the shirt; give Din better access instead of him needing to shove a hand up _under_ and grope at your breasts. He gives the fabric an annoyed tug, but it’s fruitless. There’s no use when there’s better things to be sought. 

He shoves your shirt as far up as it goes, shivering as he mouths down your stomach, licks around your bellybutton and sucks a bruise onto your hipbone. Your pants are already pulled halfway down—one sharp yank and they’re around your ankles and off in the next breath. 

Cupping your knees with both hands he gingerly spreads your legs and drapes them over his muscular shoulders. Din rubs his patchy haired cheek along your thigh and hooks his hands under your ass, his ivory white teeth catching the light as he smiles. 

“Fucking _perfect—“_ He groans, planting his lips over your inner thigh. His tongue swipes a wet line up, stopping just before your aching cunt to dig his teeth into the sensitive flesh. You jump at the burst of pain and shoot a hand down, tangling your fingers into the soft curls atop his head. 

Din grunts and jumps to your other thigh, leaving no inch of skin neglected and without evidence of his teeth and lips. By the time his thumbs touch the outer lips of your cunt, the aching _need_ for him is burning you from the outside in. He has to still your twitching hips with a calloused palm, and only after you settle does he surge forward. 

His tongue meets your swollen clit, ripping a tangled cry from you vocal cords. He’s just as eager as the first time he tasted you, if not more—every action backed by needy abandon. He sucks at the bundle of nerves then sweeps his tongue lower. Din’s thumbs part your lower lips as he runs his tongue though your soaked folds, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit that send delicious sparks throughout your whole body. Little noises and breathy gasps fill the cave, encouraging Din to push his tongue deep into your aching entrance. 

Your hand fists into his hair as your hips stutter and rock into the searing heat of his mouth. The noises you make are _obscene_ , and Din is no better. Each pass of his tongue over your pussy is matched with his own deep moans that vibrated against your clit. _Fucking hell_ he’s devouring you alive. 

Your orgasm sneaks up on you, robs you blind and crashes over you in deep waves that drag you out to sea and never to be found again as you spill onto his greedy tongue. Your fingers are threaded tight in his hair as you squeak and press harder into his mouth, riding out your pleasure until it shifts and becomes raw and sore. 

Din doesn’t pause for even a second—all too happy to stay put between your thighs for eternity. Your legs are trembling when you force his head away, a nice, tingly warmth settling into your limbs 

A dark thrill rushes down your spine when he looks up, wild hair and mouth covered in your slick. If not for the low lighting you imagine his eyes would be glazed over and _Maker y_ ou want him _again._ Din swoops down and presses his mouth to yours, the taste of yourself heavy on his tongue that slips past the seem of your lips. 

You whine after he breaks away and sits up—an opportunity for your eyes to roam down his body. He’s still got his trousers on, a _considerable_ bulge tenting the front. With a smirk you reach up and grab a handful, delighting in Din’s startled grunt. “ _Easy_.”

You flash him a wry smile and give his clothed cock a playful squeeze. “Take them off.” 

Din huffs and pulls at the drawstrings. “Needy.”

He says it with no bite and no coquettish retort on your end springs to mind— _especially_ when his thumbs hook into the waistband and pull. A slow reveal of sun-kissed skin and a sparse happy trail that your eyes eagerly drink up. 

Din’s cock bobs as his trousers fall around his knees, tip shiny and wet and curling towards his navel. You bite the inside of your cheek and reach out, a rush of arousal pulsing through your core at Din’s low moan. He’s heavy in your hand, deliciously thick and throbbing—and all of it for _you_. 

Din gasps out your name as you lightly squeeze and stroke down, your pace _dreadfully_ slow and teasing. Who _knows_ when you’ll get another chance like this—a Mandalorian willingly on their knees for _you_. 

Your other hand slips up his chest as you stroke him, intent on grabbing a handful of his thick hair that curls softly against the column of his neck. Your fingernail lightly scrapes across his nipple and he sways, pitching forward before he catches himself and straightens. Din’s eyes are squeezed tight, chest heaving with shallow pants as a smirk tugs at your lips. 

“It’s ok, Din,” you whisper. “I won’t break.” 

Your fingers twist into the hair at the base of his skull and guide him back. He slumps forward with a sweet moan, laying his weight onto your body that you’re all too happy too bare. His nose is nestled into the slope of your neck as his hands lock around the dip of your lower back while the other cradles the back of your head, drawing you into a loose semblance of a hug. 

Something snaps and crumbles deep in your soul that bleeds the heartstring blues, humming with broken chords in the presence of Din’s soft fragility. Your hand moves from between his legs to instead wrap around the wide expanse of his back, squeezing him tight to your chest. You hold each other like there isn’t tomorrow to look forward to and you wonder if this is how it feels to fall apart. Two spinning halves of a supernova torn apart and destined to collide and shatter into a million fragments of dazzling light. 

Yes, you’re scared he might blind you or burn you with his brilliance, but you can’t look away. 

Your fingers crawl up his muscled thigh and settle on his hip. “Lie down for me?”

There’s no hint of hesitation or complaint as he maneuvers himself onto his back, patiently allowing you to clamber over his legs and straddle his hips. His cock rests on your inner thigh, pulsing and leaving a dribble of wetness every time it twitches. 

“Good boy.” It’s _subtle_ but it ripples out like a heavy stone thrown into a still lake. Din shudders and says your name in a cracked whisper. He rolls his hips, both of you groaning at the sensation of his cock running along your dripping center. 

Another time for that game maybe. 

Your desperation is running hot and wild to have him inside you and you know he’s in a similar boat. You grab the thick shaft of his cock and grind the tip of him through your lips, breath hitching when it extracts such a perfect moan from the man below you. 

“Ride me,” he pleads, clamping his large hands over your hips. “ _Fuck—_ I _need_ you.” 

How can you deny such a request?

You line the wide head up with your aching center and slowly work him in. Shivers wrack through you, and Maker—he’s splitting you apart, molding your insides to the shape of him. Beads of sweat dot your hairline by the time you’re seated fully on his member, the both of you pushed even closer towards madness. 

Din squeezes your ass and props his knees up, rolling his hips up into you. You whimper and tip forward, propping your palms over his chest as he sets the pace. You may be on top but there’s no changing the bold colors of power and lust that cloud his mind, fueling the brutal movements of fucking up into you. Your thighs burn already and _Maker—_ why the _fuck_ are you already tired? You’re not doing _any_ of the work. 

Quicker than lightning, Din curls forward and manhandles you onto your back. You squeak as he grips your thigh and yanks it around his narrow hips, thrusting in _deeper._ His right hand crawls up the front of your shirt and wraps his fingers around your throat in a loose hold. His thumb hovers over the dip at the base of your neck but he makes no move to press down—just allows the weight of his palm to do the work. And _fuck_ —it _works_. 

Choked garbles of his name pass through your lips as you buck and squirm in his hold, feeling your arousal begin to drip down the back of your thighs. You’re skirting the edge of sizzling release that alights your nerves with liquid wildfire. Your nails harpoon into the meat of his shoulders as your eyes squeeze shut. Din won’t allow it. 

“ _Look_ at me,” Din snarls, yanking your head back by your hair. “I want to—to watch you cum for me.” 

A blush scalds your cheeks but you listen. Your eyes flutter open for him, sliding to the dark shadows of his eyes that sweep you into their own gravity well with no hope to escape. You don’t mind. 

“You’re so g-good for me—always so perfect.”

White hot light bursts behind your eyelids, and that’s all it takes. Your body seizes, your cunt squeezing impossibly tight around his cock as you cum. This one is different—steals your breath away and leaves you a broken husk of a person lost in most delectable forms of agony and pleasure. The cry of his name pierces the air only spurring the Mandalorian into a jarring pace to seek his own peak of ecstasy. 

Din’s nose nuzzles into your neck, his pants hot and sharp against your flushed skin. “You f-feel so— _fuck._ Say—say my name.”

You leap to his request and with a playful nip to his earlobe, you whisper it to him with the sweetness of starcherrries and the promise of better things. 

He tips over the edge, his hips faltering into no discernible pace as he cums. Din buries his teeth into the skin below your jaw, a mess of whines and begging gasps of nonsense as he fills your cunt to the brim. 

Your harsh breathing mingles as you both lazily slip down from your high. He rests his head over your sternum, listening to your beating heart that drums in a wild staccato as your fingers carefully comb through his hair. If not for the ache in your hips you’d keep him here forever. Din pulls out and you both groan at the loss. 

He doesn’t completely move away and you’re glad for it. He brushes his knuckles down the expanse of your cheek and dots a tender kiss to your hairline. Your name rumbles low in his throat as he shifts lower and gives your ear lobe a playful nip. His stubble scrapes along your neck, and you can’t help but giggle and squirm—but the weight of his body keeps you pinned. Your name slips from his lips a second time, breathy and drawn out in a sweet sigh, like he’s savoring the sound of each syllable and roll of the tongue. 

Din lifts his head, only slightly—near enough that his nose bumps into yours and his lips scrape along yours that are still parted and wet. “I—can I tell you something?” 

You cup his cheek and steal a kiss. It’s supposed to be _quick_ —but instead he leans into it, guiding your mouth into a slow dance of sticky sweet movements that are caught in a slow draw, like crystalized honey abandoned in a glass jar. You’re enraptured by his touch—his skin mottled with scars yet somehow still unfairly _soft._ He smells of snow—like metal and soap and something gentler, that’s uniquely _Din_. 

_Fuck_ —you can feel your mind slipping away, wrapped up so snugly in his presence you almost forget to answer. “Yeah _—anything_.”

Crackling static suddenly rips through the cave, startling you both. A distorted voice chatters on the comlink that lies forgotten beside your pants. It blinks and the transmission ends just as abruptly. With a sigh Din brushes it off and tilts his head to tempt you into another kiss _but—_

Whoever’s trying to patch through is _persistent_. 

His lip curls in a scowl and snatches the comm. “ _Jorhaa’ir.”_

You only catch your name being mentioned twice as rapid Mando’a is exchanged. Aeris maybe judging by the tone, but _no_ that’s not right. 

“ _Wait_ —is that Paz?”

The muscles in Din’s shoulders tense, confirming your suspicion.

“Is everything ok?” Din doesn’t resist you when you pry the comlink out of his fingers and patch in. “Paz?”

Your heart skips a beat. 

_“There you are,”_ the comlink crackles and you smile. _“You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”_

_Stars—_ you didn’t think you’d miss hearing Paz’s voice. Your chest aches. 

The conversation is short, he asks you how you are and when you’re coming home and in the time it takes to answer, Din is peeling himself from your body. While you're distracted, he pulls on his pants and sits at the edges of your vision.

You both pretend when you say goodnight to Paz, return the comlink and crawl into his arms that nothing has festered with savage detachment. You don't remember to ask him what he was going to say and he lets you forget. The golden heart that bleeds molten ichor slips from your sight and becomes shut behind walls of beskar and bushes of thick thorns and overgrown ivy. 

He still holds you, but it’s the coldest you’ve ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @jangofctts on Tumblr

**Author's Note:**

> say hi to me on tumblr! @jangofctts


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